BadWolfonBakerStreets Fanfic100 challenge
by BadWolfonBakerStreet
Summary: 100 ficlets about Sherlock and John. Or rather I hope that one day it will be 100 of them. Expect mostly fluff. They are not in chronological order.
1. 001 Beginnings

**001. Beginnings**

John falls into his new bed and exhales slowly. He is so tired that he could pass out any moment but the rest of the adrenaline in his blood is preventing that. He can't remember when he's been that exhausted. Well, exhausted from actually doing something. He usually just feels tired, tired of everything around him. But tonight he's truly exhausted because he had been basically running for two days non-stop. And happy, and he can't remember when he's been that happy either.

He knows he really shouldn't, should feel bad, because he shot a man. But he really can't bring himself to do it. Instead he floats on this cloud of happiness. That he's had bit too much to drink certainly helps with that.

Looks like this is what his life will be from now on. Because he moved in with a complete madman, even if it's a brilliant one. Sherlock Holmes. John still can't really wrap his mind around what really happened. Well, the murders, the cabby, all that, sure... but he's not sure what happened to him. All he was looking for was a flatshare. He wouldn't have it expected to come with a genius, a serial suicide investigation, an abduction and giggling at crime scenes. Perhaps the Chinese food, yes, that was the only thing predictable.

Naturally Sherlock hadn't been able to deduce what was written on the little slip of paper in the fortune cookies. Nice to see the man is human after all.

John sighs and can't stifle a little giggle. He should probably be worried by the fact that he hopes all of his days will be like this. But he has something to write in his blog now, Ella will be pleased. Yes, he will write up the whole case tomorrow. If he had the time.

And with that thought Doctor John H. Watson falls asleep with a content smile on his face.

Sherlock turns around in his bed for the umpteenth time. He can't sleep. He _always_ sleeps after solving a case. At first he thought his _fan_ was keeping him awake. Moriarty, a riddle to solve. Sherlock doesn't like riddles. He likes evidence and making the right conclusions. There wasn't much to deduce from a name.

Anyway, that isn't what's keeping him awake. That is due to the fact that he isn't alone in the flat, that there is his new flatmate sleeping upstairs. Not just flatmate, partner at least in this case, hopefully in the future.

John Watson had very much surprised him tonight. Sherlock hadn't expected him, to come after him, and even less to save his life by shooting the murderer. Without any doubts or regrets. Sherlock can really be glad to have the man's trust – however he gained it – because he wouldn't like to have John against him. Of course John isn't as smart as him, but nobody is and he's at least less irritating then most people, especially the idiots at the Yard. Maybe except for Lestrade, who is more intelligent than his underlings. But John has qualities you won't find in anyone working for the police. Obviously he has a strong feeling about right and wrong and clearly applies his own scale for that. The man might have served for queen and country but he obviously doesn't care an awful lot about it's laws and Sherlock had a feeling that would serve him very well in the future.

In case the doctor stays. And against all logic Sherlock has a _feeling_ he will. Because Sherlock provides the danger he needs in his life, something that's not ordinary, not predictable. And as unassuming and ordinary as John looked at first glance he has proven tonight that he was far from that. Sherlock just hopes he could put up with the rest. With _him. _With the experiments that always managed to leak into every aspect of living. And with his moods. He had mentioned the violin and not speaking for days when they met at Bart's, but he knows perfectly well those aren't the worst sides of him.

Sherlock wonders what John would do, if he suddenly needed a cigarette and turned the whole flat upside down searching for his secret stash. Or if he needed something more, knowing there was nothing left in the flat. At least John already knew about his past. He didn't run at that, so maybe he can cope with it all.

Sherlock hopes he will.


	2. 062 Spring

**062. Spring**

When John woke up he didn't open his eyes right away. He could feel the breeze from the open window on his face and hear the birds sing. He noticed that one of his legs was hanging out of the bed, it must have been too warm under the duvet.

When he opened his eyes he smiled at the patterns the sun was drawing on the ceiling of the bedroom. John wasn't surprised to see Sherlock's side of the bed empty. Sherlock slept more and regularly now, John made sure of that, but he still needed less sleep then most people.

Slowly John sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He was immediately reminded that he overdid his exercises yesterday, his muscles were hurting all over. Two years ago they probably would have been a bit tense, nothing a hot shower couldn't fix, but he was really getting old now. They both were. Sherlock was a few years younger and he tried to hide it but he wasn't as fit as he used to be. Well, that's what not running around London and chasing criminals does for you, John thought.

Sherlock had also bought hair dye the first time John had pointed out that there was a grey hair on his head. He grinned. One of the greatest minds of the planet and he was thrown off by a grey hair. Sherlock always had been vain, but now it was harder to hide. Doing his hair took longer and his old suits didn't fit any more. Last week they had gone up to London for a fitting. When one of the shop assistants had offered Sherlock something _'a little more suitable'_, namely a tweed jacket, Sherlock had glared at him until the young man nervously went to answer his phone, that hadn't been ringing.

"It had elbow patches, John. _Elbow patches_!", he had hissed when they were on the train back home. "If I actually ever should wear something like that abomination, please put me in a nursery home, so the rest of me can rot, just like my brain." John had stifled a snicker and hid his grin behind the newspaper.

"You do realize, I have a jacket that looks almost exactly like that?"

"On you it looks _right_."

"The abomination looks right on me, well, thank you very much, darling." If he hadn't added the 'darling'Sherlock might have thought he was offended. After 20 years together the man still didn't understand a lot of emotional reactions. But he would never think John was serious when he ended a sentence with something ridiculous as 'darling'. They sometimes used 'love' as a term of endearment, but usually they stuck to John and Sherlock, both not really being the verbal type, not when it came to feelings.

John made his way downstairs, still in his pyjamas. Still no Sherlock, but the windows in the kitchen were wide open. John hadn't realized how warm it really was but now that he was fully awake he noticed it must be about 20° outside, unusual for England in March. And that also explained why Sherlock was nowhere in sight. With a smile spreading over his face John moved to the living room window and there he was.

In the corner of the garden Sherlock was removing the winter covers from the bee hives. He was still in his pyjamas, but at least had thrown on a dressing gown. John's. He hadn't bothered to put on shoes and his naked toes flexed in the grass. His hair was a complete mess.

And in that moment John didn't feel his aching muscles any more. And he wasn't worried about getting old. Because it was spring and he would happily spend the whole season standing at the window, looking at the impossible man he loved, who was busy with his ridiculous and utterly _wonderful_ bees.


End file.
